


A Kingly Gift

by cherrytart



Series: Burglarising [3]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Angst, Childbirth, F/M, Flashbacks, Other, bagginshield, disapproving elrond disapproves, fem!Bilbo, gandalf being gandalf, in which i abuse the concept of subtlety, some light fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrytart/pseuds/cherrytart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wakeful burglar is haunted by gifts and memories old and new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kingly Gift

**Author's Note:**

> So this is part three of my series...just wanted to say thankyou and a thousand <3's to everyone reading and giving kudos, bookmarks etc. You guys are awesome.  
> Oh, and on the subject of awesome, sheeprilyn on tumblr made a graphic (http://sheeprilyn.tumblr.com/post/39706601744/prompt-fem-bilbo-au-bagginshield-made-for) for Honour Among Thieves, and it is lovely and she is talented.

Bag End sometimes seems altogether too large, especially at night when the rounded ceilings and halls stretch like caverns beneath the Hill, distorted by shadows and moonlight.

It never used to be like this, Billa Baggins remembers. Back when she knew nothing of the world, everything fit together seamlessly. She shakes her head at her own melancholy, curling deeper into the chair by the fire.

It was this chair she had sat in, night after night when she first returned home, holding her daughter, feeding, rocking, singing to her and trying to make sense of all that had happened to them, without great success. But it had been okay, or so she thought.

Because she had Freya, and as her daughter has grown from a warm little bundle to an inquisitive baby to a bright eyed toddler, Billa’s heart has begun to knit itself back together. It was more than enough for Billa to see her child safe and happy, and it still is.

It is her own fault, then, Billa supposes. She ought to have put the silver shirt away in some place Freya could never reach, made quite sure it was hidden and forgotten about, since she hadn’t been able to bear parting with the last gift that Thorin gave her.

Last, but not most cherished, at least in Billa’s eyes. She already been with child when Thorin had slipped the mithril tunic over her head to settle against her bare skin, though her condition had not yet been visible. In that moment, when he had folded her into his arms and kissed her again and again, muttering about keeping safe what was _his_ ,  Billa had almost told him.

But her courage had failed her, there deep in the heart of Erebor, and instead she had clung onto him tight and wondered if, on the morrow, he would find it in himself to forgive her for her secrets and her silence.  For the loss of the stone that nestled in the pocket of the dress which lay in a heap on the floor.

Thorin had not forgiven her, and Billa suspected that he never would. She had stained his honour in more ways than he knew. It was not so much that she felt guilty for the Arkenstone, which if you asked her was far more trouble than it was worth- but Thorin’s trust was as hard a thing to lose as his love.

Perhaps that is why she keeps the mithril shirt- to remind herself that once he had loved her, cherished her as she does him. She takes it out sometimes, holds it against her as though checking it still fits. _Checking she is still herself, that the woman she had been in the eyes of Thorin Oakenshield has not completely gone._

It had been, in a way, her safety, as the child in her womb had been whatever remained of her strength. On the journey back, she had worn it under her dress until her pregnancy made it impossible to do so, all the way to the Last Homely House and the protection of Lord Elrond.

*

_She was asleep when they arrived, and she woke on a  chaise in some room, conscious for a while only of the voices that floated from the other side of the wide, airy space._

_“You are certain this is wise, Mithrandir?” Lord Elrond asked- by cracking her eyes open a little, Billa could see him striding back and forth, heavy robes swirling._

_“I am certain of nothing, but I ask only that you care for her until the child is born.” Gandalf_ , _parted for once from his pointed grey hat, sat by the window, seemingly relaxed, but his eyes were fixed on the elf lord._

_“The dwarf king…” Lord Elrond hazarded, and Billa clamped her eyes shut again. She had shed her tears for the king under the mountain, and promised that she would never do so again._

_“Has no knowledge of this. And shall remain ignorant.” Gandalf replied._

_“Why?” The question seemed not to bother Gandalf, but it made Billa wrap a hand around the broad swell of her stomach, as if in some futile attempt to protect the child (a girl, she suspected, she was carrying high, didn’t Aunt Mirabella always say that meant a girl?) within._

_A king’s bastard, unwanted by all but her mother who had betrayed her father’s people, evidence of a union the King Under The Mountain had renounced in the presence of his own kith and kin. Billa’s cheeks flamed at the memory as Lord Elrond stopped his movement._

_“Why?” The ruler of Imladris asked Gandalf. “Why must he not know?”_

_“Because Billa wishes it that way.” Gandalf had stood up now, and it was the swish of the wizard’s robes Billa heard now as Elrond remained motionless. “Thorin used her poorly- and the fault is partly mine, I fear. If I had been more vigilant…”_

_And it was to her own detriment Billa wanted then to defend her lover- for had he even been that? They had coupled, certainly- he had taken her, and called her his, and she had known for perhaps the first time what it was to give ones heart. She had given hers gladly._

_But he had cast her aside, and done so as sincerely as he had first taken her into his bed- well, they_ were _in the wilderness and beds were hard to come by but the sentiment was the same, or so she’d thought. Perhaps she’d been wrong though, or felt too much and thought too little._

_Lord Elrond sighed, and Billa sensed he was looking in her direction. “Do you know the circumstance-”_

_“I know enough. She is strong, Elrond, but alone. She needs comfort, protection- help. You can provide it, if only for a while.”_

_“Until the child is born.” Billa could imagine the extent to which the Elf Lord’s eyebrows were indicating his extreme disapproval of the situation. “And then?”_

_“It is up to Billa.” Gandalf’s voice was very quiet, and Billa had to shift her head upwards in order to hear. “I trust her to make the choice that is best for her and her child.”_

_“It is not only her child. If the King Under the Mountain comes looking…”_

_“He will not, I can assure you.” Gandalf said, and Billa felt once again the confusion that came from missing Thorin, wanting him with her, and at the same time wanting to stay as far away from him as possible because it hurt so much less._

_“I suppose I must be content with your assurances. Will you be staying also?”_

_“No. There are things I must attend to. I will remain long enough to bid Billa farewell, and then I must away…”_

_Her eyelids heavy with suddenly returning fatigue, Billa was just able to discern the open and close of a door before sleep floods in to claim her again._

*

If only sleep would come so easily now. Billa knows it is folly, but the image of Freya, tripping out of the door draped in the Mithril shirt -with her scamp of a cousin grinning behind her, and really, _why_ had Billa agreed to look after Esmerelda’s son for the afternoon, she might have known he would take directly after his Brandybuck father- is playing on her mind.

“Look, Mama, I a princess!” Freya had declared, holding out her arms and attempting a spinning circle which was abruptly cut short when she tripped over the hem of the shirt, toppled into Merry and promptly ended on the ground.

Billa’s mind had slowed to a fearful, grinding halt as she looked at her daughter, giggling in a heap in the shining tunic, which looked more like a gown on Freya’s tiny form.

**_Mama, I’m a princess._ **

_Yes, yes you are, or you should be, but I took you away to keep you safe and please don’t say that, don’t ask me to face it, I can’t , you’re my baby, you can’t be anything else, I’m sorry my love, Freya, darling, I’m sorry, Thorin, forgive me…._

She regrets what happened next- she had shepherded them both inside and made Freya take the shirt off, stowed it away with indecent haste and made her daughter promise never to touch it again. Freya had complied, but with a wounded look that made Billa feel guilty.

 _I should’ve explained, told her why instead of panicking, that was wrong of me._ She tells herself, toying with the neck of her dressing gown. _But how could I explain when there is no explanation…_

After all, how can she tell her daughter that, in spite of how much she loves her, how much she will always love her, how precious she is and how that will never change, that she will never be anything more than a bastard in the eyes of the world?

Billa swallows. She knew what she was doing, bringing Freya into the world the way she did, and try as she might she has never been able to bring herself to regret it…

*

_Billa’s last month in Imladris saw her flat on her back more often than not, her stomach having grown to such an extent that she found herself unable to stir herself out of bed, let alone far beyond her chambers._

_The elven healers Elrond had commissioned to look after her were worried, Billa realised. When they weren’t pursing their lips they were shaking their heads, and when they weren’t doing that they were murmuring to each other in elven tongue, quiet and pale and circumspect in corners or around tables._

_Most of the time though, she found herself looking through them, dreaming of times past and times yet to come. Of dragons and jewels and whispers in the dark. Of her child, and what on earth she would say to her little one when they looked up at her and asked where their father was._

_That was what she dreaded the most. Not the stares and the judging that would commence when she returned to Hobbiton, not even the gossip she would expose her relations to- although honestly, anticipating the looks on the more prudish hobbit’s faces did give her occasion to giggle._

_Such contortions were apt to draw a response from the baby, a kick or what felt like an elbow at times. Sometimes, it was discomforting, especially now that she was past due. But more often, it felt as though they were sharing something, and that gave her hope, however fleeting._

_And thoughts like that made her want to shake herself, because sentimentality was going to get her nowhere. More often than not she just felt impatient- wanting this waiting done, to be rid of the anticipation of pain, wanting her child safe in her arms, wanting home for both of them._

_When it did happen, though, it happened altogether too quickly. She woke in the middle of the night, possessed by the urge to get up and use her feet. Using a motion not unlike that of a wobbling ninepin, she was able to haul herself upright and edge out of bed._

_Billa cupped a hand around the warm weight of her stomach, breathing fast and shallowly as she made her way from the bed to the window. Then something seemed to loosen within her and the next thing she knew she was bent double with a damp feeling on her legs._

_Most of that night would forever be a painful blur to her, partially due to the potions and liquids the elves gave her to drink, supposedly to numb the agony of birth. And because of the fear that  came with complete and utter desertion._

_True, she had midwives and healers and she was sure she could hear the swish of Lord Elrond’s robe a couple of times (he had a very distinct pacing style, she had discovered over the past months), but they were not_ hers _. They didn’t know her, and she felt hollow and lost and so, so afraid._

_There were times in the night, she knew that she had yearned above all else for her mother’s touch or voice, for her father’s steady reassurance. But they were long gone, and still more she longed for the face of the one she loved, even twisted and furious as it had been the last time she’d laid eyes on him, if only he would stay._

_But above all on that night she remembered wanting to get up, to stand or squat or do anything other than lie on her back on the sweat soaked covers, aching and sobbing. She tried to ask the midwives to help her upright, begged even, but all they did was soothe her and place cool cloths on her forehead, whispering that it would be over soon._

_Billa knew not why she felt the need to birth her child standing, hobbits never did so after all. She remembered once when Gloin had told her of his son’s birth, he’d mentioned something about bricks, but again when she tried to explain this to the elves she was met with blank looks and calm reassurances._

_Eventually it all faded into nothing but a  high thin scream it took her too long to realise was not her own. She had woken however many hours later on fresh sheets in a clean shift, raw between her legs and, worst of all,_ empty _._

_Billa remembered muttering frantically to herself as she tried to get up, wincing at the pain labour had inflicted on her body, every step a torment, stinging and aching all over. But all of it eclipsed by the single minded desire to find her child, her little one who she hadn’t even seen before falling wearily into unconsciousness…_

_When she eventually found the room, not so far from her own, she paused by the door, using the frame to hold herself in a standing position, trying to breathe in anything resembling a normal pattern._

_A small sound came from the ornate crib. Billa had never seen a cradle so fine, though she could easily imagine the sneer on Thorin’s face at the delicate rosewood and finely wrought carvings, the fancy bend of the legs, the embroidered silken blankets so typically elvish, so unfit for Durin’s heir…._

No. _Billa reminded herself, looking down numbly at the small thing whose cries made her breasts leak and whose skin was softer than soft, the dwarvish features and ice blue eyes telling plainly of her heritage._ She is not Durin’s heir. She cannot be, she is mine, my baby.

_Something cracked within her, and she reached out and cupped her hand around her baby’s downy head (Freya, her name is Freya, not a hobbit name, not Took nor Baggins, she will never be so ordinary)  Billa Baggins knew then that she would be forever a burglar, to have stolen a treasure so perfect and precious as this._

*

“Mama?” Billa is jerked out of her reverie by a small tug on the edge of her dressing gown.

“You should be in bed, my love.” Billa tells her daughter, but makes no attempt to stop Freya from climbing up onto her lap. It was worth it, she thinks, as Freya makes herself comfortable, leaning her head against her mother’s breast and twisting her fingers into Billa’s hair. _I would not trade this in place of anything._

“Mama angry?” Freya asks, perhaps remembering the shock on Billa’s face earlier.

“No, love, of course not…”  Stroking the rounded tip of her daughter’s distinctly un-hobbit-like ears, Billa is wonders if dwarven mothers do such things with their children. They must do, she tells herself- mothers are mothers, whenever and wherever and whoever else they may be, and this, even for someone like Billa who never thought of having children, has become second nature.

“Mama sad?” Freya tries again, her blue eyes cast with a greyish tint from the moonlight spilling into the cottage. She will be a beauty when she’s older, Billa is sure of that, whether or not she ever manages a beard.

“I’m not sad, Freya, nor angry. Everything’s okay.” Saying it doesn’t mean it’s true, but it helps, Billa finds. More than she had known before.

Freya looks at her, her small face and large ears, her father’s eyes and a Tookish set to her chin. She looks until she is sure she is completely forgiven. “Mama tell story?” she asks then, her little hand reaching up imploringly to touch Billa’s face.

Billa sighs- Gandalf had said she’d have plenty to tell, and that was certainly true, but most of her adventures are decidedly unsuitable for her baby to hear about.

“Just one then.” Billa warns, settling Freya more evenly onto her lap, and maybe the likes of Lobeila Sackville Baggins can gripe that she’s not firm enough with Freya, but her daughter complies easily enough to this.

“Once ‘pon time…” Freya prompts, and Billa smiles, kissing her daughter on the head and inhaling the sweet soft scent of her little girl. _Always be just as you are now, my love,_ she wishes futilely for a moment, before a distinct pout in Freya’s lip hastens her to speak.

“Once upon a time, there was a wizard who lived in a forest, and he wore a crooked brown hat and a long brown beard. A troupe of rabbits pulled his sled, faster than the eye could see…” 

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly backstory- and Freya related fluff, because why not, but I hope people enjoyed it.  
> So, what's next?  
> Well, far over the misty mountains cold- okay, I'll stop. Singing, I mean. Because I was and I /really/ shouldn't. *hides*


End file.
